Arcade Fire's The Suburbs is a markedly more self-conscious album. Photograph: Eric Kayne

Alarm bells usually ring out when bands start writing about being in a band. Sometimes known as second (or, indeed, third) album syndrome, this affliction can strike any time after a successful release. The syndrome implies that a band's formative impetus has slackened, that they are reduced to writing about what they know now. If you're Kings of Leon, partying figures prominently. More delicate dispositions tend to focus on the view from the tour bus window, or, in the case of Arctic Monkeys, on absurdly attired schmoozers backstage in Japan (cf 2007's "Brianstorm").

On their third album, Arcade Fire – that Texan-Haitian-Canadian septet – have become markedly more self-conscious. "Come and make a record in the month of May," begins "Month of May", a refreshingly punky offering. "The kids are still standing with arms folded tight," it notes later, eyeing the crowd at a gig. "Now we'll scream and sing the chorus again," urges "We Used To Wait", the album's first single. "Businessmen are drinking my blood," singer Win Butler muses on "Ready to Start".

Butler's new-found meta-textuality is no sign of weakness. At 16 tracks, The Suburbs might be a little long-winded; the band's core rollick – sometimes easygoing, mostly portentous – might have benefited from more varied population densities (Arcade Fire tend to pile in mob-handed on most of their songs). More disco tunes – like Régine Chassagne's terrific surprise Abba turn, "Sprawl II" – would have finally freed Arcade Fire from the (inaccurate) assumption that they are hangdog doom-mongers. But The Suburbs is an enthralling piece; it does not disappoint.

This is an acutely observed record, rich with drama and saturated detail, retaining the authoritative dread of its predecessor, Neon Bible, while harking back to the childhood nostalgia of Arcade Fire's celebrated debut, Funeral. Its charms are cumulative, growing with every listen; after a while, you can spot the little references pinging back and forth between individual songs. It's an old hip-hop trick, and an even older symphonic one; it lends The Suburbs extra warmth and gravitas.

And, in actual fact, those vampiric businessmen are going hungry. As well as their artistic prowess, one of Arcade Fire's more remarkable achievements, as well as their artistic prowess, is their commercial autonomy. They own their studio and their recordings, which they license out to record companies. They control their own destinies in a way that only Radiohead can rival right now.

Instead of exposing a lack of inspiration, Butler's self-referential episodes – his songs about being in a band – belie a writerly gaze that is growing more acute, outwardly and inwardly. These interludes examine Arcade Fire's surroundings within a greater context: the role of music in friendships, in growing up, in refining critical faculties. "Suburban War" finds the kids divided into musical tribes, growing their hair and growing apart.

Butler could profitably embark on a second career as a town planner, so sensitive is he to the human impact of sprawl, of "Cities with No Children", of inter-zones built to be torn down. Anyone who has ever gone "home" to the altered landscape of their childhood and felt the nauseous lurch of spiritual dislocation will find a kindred soul in Butler and his band.